I Am A Shell
by BrokenKeyBlade
Summary: Dorian tries to make his wrongs a right. He tries to slay the beast after all these years. But he's weak. One-shot. Movie based.


**First off, I want to say that this is based off of the two times I watched the movie. I'm not saying it's bad. I'm actually kinda proud of it. But if you're a major movie version hater, I wouldn't read it because, well, I'm a noob. I really want to get a hold of the book, then do some better, more respectful fanfictions but for now all I have in Netflix... Well, enjoy!**

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He's standing in the doorway, staring emotionless at the covered painting that's propped up off the floor. So many days and nights and weeks and fucking _years _he had spent staring at it, just like he's doing now. Sizing it up. Almost... challenging it. _Who will win? _he thinks. _Who's going to overpower the other?_

It's almost ludicrous, how his whole life falls apart because of a painting and a stupid slip of words that he doesn't even mean, not entirely and wholly. At first he believes that it is a great blessing. But Basil was right, it needs to be destroyed. He needs help. He isn't innocent Dorian Gray any longer. He is a demon.

"I am no longer alive," he says, a whisper that has to be forced between his perfect lips, "I am a shell."

He collapses where he stands in the doorway and hangs his head in his hands. "I am broken. I am pathetic. I'm immortal and have nothing." He takes a sharp intake of breath to keep some composure. The air tastes like dust and rot. He mentally builds himself back together and manages to stand up. His legs feel a little weak but he takes several steps forward until he's looking down at a yellow scarf. It has smears of blood all over it.

"Basil," Dorian says with a shaky sigh. He tries to say more but can't find the right words. And it's not like it matters; Basil can't hear him where he is. Basil is an angel and Dorian is a creature from Hell.

Sibyl's dress is in the musty box too, but he can't even stand looking at it, so he turns around only to face shards of his reflection. One piece of the mirror is missing, probably still at the bottom of the river, and Dorian gently brushes his fingers over the indent where the deadly shard should be. Where it should've stayed, so many nights ago.

He plucks up another piece from the frame and studies what he sees in it. Pale, unscarred flesh. Dark eyes. Black hair. It's disgusting. He should have wrinkles, sun spotted skin, washed out eyes with graying hair. His features should be sunken in from years of drug abuse. He should look how he feels inside and how that god damned painting depicts the demon that has stolen the real Dorian Gray!

A sharp pain in his palm distracts him from his thoughts for a moment. Before he can even examine the cut, caused by gripping the shard too tightly, it mends itself and the pain winks out. For whatever reason, this seems to enrage him, and he lets out a little cry before stabbing his arm and twisting. Blood squirts out and he withdraws the piece and stares at it. It drips and the blood splatters on his shoe. The wound is already starting to heal, and he almost feels sad to let it go. Such feelings that he does it again. And again. And the leaves a deep cut on his cheek and neck and gasps for air a tosses the shard away and just lets the tears slide down his face as the salt stings his slowly healing gashes. He's staring at his reflection.

_Oh, I see him, _he thinks. _I see Dorian. The weak, young, mortal Dorian._

He brushes the grimy surface of the mirror, right over his face. That piece falls out of its cradle and clatters on the floor, and he licks his lips and composes himself once again, using the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the blood from his face. He dusts off his knees and cough, almost politely, in his hand.

_Why do I care so much today? _He screws up his face in pain and he almost looks ugly, but he's so perfect it's impossible. He tugs off his vest and soiled shirt and throws them on the ground. His finger wrap around the iron key around his neck. It's warm from laying against his heated flesh. He gives it a few tugs unconsciously and releases his grip, slowly turning to face the dreaded painting. The corner of the frame can be seen peeking out from under the moth eaten sheet. He can hear it breathing, he can see it pulsing. It's alive. It's him.

"Dorian, where have you gone?" He asks, almost broken.

He takes a step. Behind the cover, the monster groans.

"I'm sorry Dorian. I'm sorry I killed you."

He takes another step. His heart is pounding so hard he thinks it might explode out of his chest.

_I can do it. I can kill this monster._

He stops directly in front of the hidden painting. It's breathing heavily, pulsing behind the fabric, groaning, taunting. It can sense him close by.

Dorian extends his arm until his pale fingers are just barely brushing the sheet. He then grasps it tightly and takes a breath. His other hand makes a fist and he grits his teeth.

"Do it," he growls at himself, "take it off. Don't be so weak."

He pauses before sucking in a breath and yanks off the cover. Instantly he feels a wave of horror sweep over him. The painting it worse than he even though it could become. It's what makes up nightmares and the deepest contents of his soul. He can't help but collapse onto his knees, eyes locked with the demon's. It's practically rotting, panting, grinning evilly. There are maggots crawling all over it, originating from its tear ducts. It's arm has a fresh gash, along with its face and hand. Everywhere else is no better off, but he can't even bare to look at it any longer.

He picks up the mirror shard from the grimey attic floor.

"I have to do it." He reasons to himself. "There's no other option." His grip on the weapon tightens substantially to the point where it cuts into his skin. The painting hisses.

"Do it." He orders. "Do it, do it! Be Dorian again. Release him." He's crying now. Not for himself but for everyone-everything-he's done wrong.

He shakily stands up. His resolve is crumbling, he can feel it, but maybe he can manage a few seconds of selfless bravery. It's pointless, he knows. Futile.

"You do not control me." Even he doesn't believe it, but he has to try.

He takes an uncertain step forward and raises his arm. The moonlight reflects off of the mirror in a broken ray, dimly illuminating his perfect face.

"You do not control me." He repeats with a little more empty vigor.

He brings down his arm with force, an attempt to bring this all to an end, to slay the beast, bring right to this unholy wrong, but just centimeters from the face of his true self, he stops. Agonizing pain all at once erupts over various parts of his body. Blood from his recent wounds bleeds out from the gashes that have reopened.

"Why are you doing this to me?" He whimpers and all of a sudden he's that scared boy, hiding from a higher wrath. The shard falls from his hand, dripping with crimson.

The painting just groans more, wriggling and writhing. It's like a dark energy is coming off it in ripples.

"I can't destroy you."

His voice is defeat. He is defeat and humiliation in a human form. No longer an innocent, wide eyed, beautiful young man. He has become what people fear and long for and hate and yearn to be.

With no more resolve or spark, he weakly rises to his feet.

"You have... overpowered me. I can't do anything to fight you off." He looks down in shame. "I'm nothing now. You're all I have left and I hate you. Basil was right. I do need help. The Dorian he knew is gone and it's because of you."

The throws the cover back over the dreadful painting. Instantly his wounds are healed again, a twisted reward for obeying what the monster commands.

His eyes drift over to the standing mirror.

"And I hate you too."

With one last shaky breath, he gingerly bends down to pick up his discarded shirt and vest. He's so ashamed in himself, so upset that he couldn't even muster up the courage and dignity to end the evil of his world, but it's nothing a few bottles of good liquor and some other intoxicants can't mend, if only for a few hours. After all, he's the facade of Dorian Gray. Nothing can kill him.

Not even himself.

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**Oh my, cheesy ending. Ack. My first Dorian Gray fanfiction, how do you like it? I know Kingdom Hearts is my homeboy, but I can get into some, uh... different stuff. Reviews anyone?**


End file.
